Some Say She Will
by AnneM.Oliver
Summary: Some say she'll smile when she reads this. Some say she'll cry. I merely hope she'll live another day, take another breath, walk another step, and then maybe, someday...if I'm lucky, maybe she'll fall in love with me. Some say she will. Adrian and Hermio


All characters belong to JK Rowling and I make no money from the writing or publishing of this story

*_This story was written for Granger Enchanted's friend Elou...because she's a wonderful wife and mother, and because sometimes life isn't fair, and because sometimes bad things happen to good people, and because she matters to us all._

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**Some say She Will**

**By**

**AnneM**

**(Written for Elou – Just Because)**

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I watch her every day from my desk at work. She's like sunshine and thunderstorms rolled together – a pure contradiction, and I love her even more because of it. I don't want to love her, but I do.

I tell myself that she's not good enough for me, but the truth's something different, something tainted with lies. The truth – as I know it - is that I'm not good enough for her. Moreover, in a weird way, I seem to always blame her for that, when really, the fault lies with me.

Today, she turned to talk to the witch beside her and caught my eye. She gave me a quick smile, and I froze. I gave her a look of disdain in return. I didn't mean to, because really, her look stole my breath away. There was something so tempting in her smile, but I ruined it when I glared back at her with my haughty glare.

Suddenly, her smile was replaced with something else. Something sad, or angry, or somber, or solemn. I felt as if she slapped me on the face when she got up and walked out of our office. I wanted to run after her…but I couldn't. I was afraid.

I wanted to touch her. I wanted to run my hands through her mass of brown curls, kiss her red, full lips, sink my nose in that juncture between her neck and collarbone, and smell her goodness and light.

I wanted her to smile at me again. Perhaps if I write everything that I feel down, she'll read it, and she'll smile again. Some say she will. I talked to my mates about it. Some laughed at me, some taunted me, some commiserated, but in the end, they all agreed and said that someday she'll smile at me again. Some say she'll even love me. I can only hope for that day.

I long for every morning when I can see her face. I dream of her each night, but still, I long for the real thing each day. Sometimes she walks by me, almost passing me like a whisper, and I swear she's doing it just to drive me wild. It's impossible to ignore her. She laughs and everyone laughs with her. She cries, and the whole world sheds a tear. She figures out a problem, and she's always right. Every moment spent with this impetuous, arousing female's like a moment spent in pure paradise.

I love her, I do.

I'm not normally a lovesick fool. I'm the levelheaded one of my mates. I'm the one everyone comes to for comfort. When they need advice (Love? Money? Women?) they come to me. I never lack for female companionship, either. And I would have been content to keep my feelings for the woman quiet for all time, except I told one mate and he told another, and then another, and another, and now they all know. They all know that Adrian Pucey loves Hermione Granger.

Everyone knows it but her.

I was going to tell her tonight, but tonight's a total disaster thus far.

We're at a dinner party for our work. Our team had accomplished a rather difficult assignment and the Minister of Magic had decided to entertain us at his own home. I wasn't going to come, especially when I heard she was going to bring Weasley as a date, but at the last moment, Malfoy Owled me and told me to get my arse over there and quick, so I arrived, fashionably late.

She looked beautiful. She wore a dress that was a cross between red and orange, silk, that hung off her curves, leaving just enough skin showing that it was tasteful, yet it still made a man want to peel it off her bit by bit.

Sitting between Weasley and Nott, she laughed, joked, and answered questions from a bloke from _The Daily Prophet_. I was the Department Head, but no one knew I was there, for cripes sakes! Everyone's eyes, including mine, were on the belle of the ball, and rightly so.

I did my best to focus on the duck with orange sauce during the meal, glancing sideways at her now and again. Imagining my lips were on her pale, long neck took up most of my time, and when I was done, I looked down and someone had taken away my plate. How rude.

Weasley was being loud and crude and obnoxious, as ever, and once I saw her flinch when he said something off-colour. Still, she kept her clear gaze on the Minister and engaged him in conversation, and it was only after a few moments had gone by that I realized she had said my name.

"Isn't that right, Adrian?" she said.

"What?" If she was asking me if it were true that she was the anchor that held the stars in place for me, that kept the moon shining bright, the sun in the sky, the air breathable, then the answer was…well…yes. Geesh, I was a lovesick fool.

"I was telling the Minister that you actually came up with the formula first," she lied.

Why did she lie? She came up with everything. I didn't need her to lie for me. Okay, I did, because the Minister made it crystal clear that he was going to replace me with someone else if my department didn't have, in his words, 'tantalizing results' soon.

"Yes," I squeaked out. Weasley turned to her and interrupted her again. Goodness, but that man was all wrong for her! Couldn't anyone else see it but me? He was uncouth, unkind, and unintelligent.

"A toast to Adrian Pucey!" the Minister of Magic declared, standing up, lifting his champagne flute high in the air.

I was about to protest, when SHE stood as well, and said, "To Adrian, the best boss in the world! You're the only man who ever saw my true potential, and who ever really supported me in my potion making endeavors, so I salute you!"

I smiled at that. Everyone drank and clapped me on the back. She sat back down, when suddenly Weasley grabbed her arm and whispered something in her ear.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Ronald," she said softly.

It was apparent that others heard her rebuff as well. A few lifted their glasses again, some began to converse. I stared daggers at the man across from me. He hissed something else quietly to her, to which she gave him a scathing look in return.

The ginger-haired man stood up, threw down his napkin, and said, "Fine, if you feel that way, you can just go home with the 'only man who ever supported you!' We're through!" Then he stormed away.

Every mouth hung open, agape in shock and embarrassment, but none more so than hers. She tried to smile, after her moment of embarrassment disappeared, and she said, "I'm just grateful that he left before pudding. More for the rest of us, don't you know?"

A few people laughed, but most looked on her with pity. I didn't look at her with pity. I was proud of her. I wanted to tell her how much, and furthermore, I wanted to tell her that SHE was the reason the project went through without a hitch, and it was her formula, and her hard work and dedication…and…and…I couldn't even get up in the morning if I didn't know I was going to see her pretty face.

However, I couldn't tell her any of that because she excused herself and left the table. I stayed, until pudding was served (lemon tarts with raspberry filling) and until coffee and tea. Only then, when the guests started to mingle, did I go search for her.

I found her easily enough, just where I thought she'd be, inside the Minister's massive library. I opened the door quietly, though I could not mask the sound of my footsteps if I tried. She was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, with an old, green, tattered book in her hand, reading aloud, in French.

I didn't even know she knew French.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked, not even looking up to see who it was.

"It's a library," I answered. That much was painfully obvious.

No other words came, so I sat on the arm of her chair, took the book from her hands, and threw it on the floor. She gasped. I laughed. "It's just a book," I mocked.

"It's an eighteenth century book of French poetry," she corrected.

"Let me amend my statement," I said, "It's just an _old_ book." Then I looked down. I still had one of her hands in mine. How did that happen? My heart went out to her. I wanted to slay her dragons, fight her fights, right her wrongs, or at least, be a shoulder for her to cry.

"I could care less what Ronald Weasley thinks, you know," she claimed, before I asked.

I slipped down in the chair with her. It was a tight fit, so I had to move her onto my lap. She fit there as if it were by design. Something deep in my heart constricted when she placed her forehead on my chest, and she started to cry. It was difficult to breathe.

She spoke her words so honestly, and I knew she meant them, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. "I only wish he hadn't embarrassed me, especially on your special night."

"He only embarrassed himself," I stated, and I meant it. "Don't give him another thought." I knew she would, but I still wanted to say it. Then in my head I thought, _'and tonight is still special, because I'm here with you.'_

"I'm not even dating him any longer, did you know that?" she volunteered.

Was she privy to my private thoughts? "Why did he come?"

"The person I wanted to come with wasn't going to come. He only decided to come at the very last minute," she supplied.

I started to stroke her arm, up and down, with just the tips of my fingers. I wonder if she meant me. I might be reading too much into things, since I was in love with her and all. "The person you wanted to come with sounds like a tosser," I responded with a smile.

She looked up at me. Tears threaten to glisten her eyes, yet she smiled again. Oh my – her smile – what was that line about… 'a smile that could launch a thousand ships'? or was it 'a face to launch a thousand ships'? No matter, her smile, her face, was enough to make me feel like jam inside.

"The person I wanted to come with is akin to perfect, at least to me, but sometimes I don't think he notices me," she forged ahead, though less certain this time.

"Some say that you don't notice him, and that he only notices you, but because you seem indifferent, he has to feign indifference, too," I mangled.

She frowned. Then she laughed. "Adrian Pucey, promise me one thing," she finally said.

I held her close and said, "Anything."

"Keep with the potions, and never become a poet, because you DO NOT have a way with words."

"That's what I was trying to tell people I should do!" I teased. Turning her in my arms, I brushed my lips against her ear and said, "I say you and I leave this place, and discuss all of this further. What say you, Hermione?"

"I say yes." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine, and the very instant that our lips touched I found accordance in the world again. I wrapped my arms around her tighter still, taking in her strength, happiness, and harmony.

Yes, some say that she will be mine someday, and finally, I think I agree.


End file.
